Persuasion, However Unconventional
by gleefullyyours
Summary: Sixth in my NYC future!fic series. Searching for a first home is frustrating on numerous levels, and Finn isn’t handling it well. Maybe he just needs a push in the right direction…


**Title: **Persuasion, However Unconventional

**Pairing:** Finn/Rachel

**Rating: **NC-17

**Author's Notes:** Written 2/10 for a Valentine's Day Fic Exchange on LJ. This is special to me because in the anonymous exchange, I was given the prompt of one of my closet online friends...so this was written especially as a gift for her! She asked for "Finn and Rachel finally move in together - smut ensues". This isn't quite what she asked for, but it's...well, _close_. There's definitely smut! LOL. And she enjoyed it, so that's all that matters. :)

Just as an FYI, this is the last story so far in this series. More to come! Even though this is future!fic, perhaps the new shows in April will give me a bit of inspiration to continue? ;)

* * *

"What the hell is an escrow, anyway?"

The muffled question comes from behind the hands that cover his face, fingertips pressed hard against his eyes. (Sadly, he discovers, that doesn't make all the paperwork beneath his elbows disappear.)

"Finn, calm down." She reaches across the table and rubs his arm soothingly before thumbing through If You're Clueless About Buying a House, a book he hadn't known existed until their recent trip to Barnes and Noble. One more item in a long list of things he didn't know about real estate. Great.

"Here…_escrow_." He looks up, watching her skim the page. "Oh, it's like a middle man for our loan. All the things we have to pay, well, that goes into escrow, apparently, and they pay it from there. At least, I think…" Her voice trails off.

Well, shit. That's just another piece of paperwork to deal with, another person to pay. They've only looked at a handful of houses, and he feels like he's drowning in this process already.

He stares down at the bank paperwork in front of him, wondering for a moment why he hadn't majored in Business in college – or better yet, Finance. Maybe then he'd understand some of this crap. (_Dude, you'd have failed out_, the voice inside him says. Right. That's why.)

He rubs his face again. _Shit_.

* * *

"The roof was just replaced two years ago, which factors into the cost of this property, of course. But you won't have to put on a new one for fifteen, eighteen years, at least."

They're walking with the real estate agent across the deck of a small grey house that he knows they won't buy. This, the eighth (no, eleventh…twentieth? Whatever.) house they've seen, has two tiny bedrooms, no master bath, and tile as the living room floor – along with a price tag beyond their budget. (And it gives off a strange vibe, he thinks.) It's another waste-of-time house. Sheesh.

"What happened here?" Rachel asks, looking up at a piece of material dangling from beneath the gutter.

"During the storm last week, a piece of the soffit came loose," the agent tells them. "It's minor damage, however. I don't believe the fascia is bent, and the gutters are still holding up."

Rachel nods. He glances up at the eaves, then stares down at the faded boards beneath his feet.

He's pretty sure he caught _storm_ and _gutter_ in that sentence, and not much else. This whole process is starting to make him feel like an idiot. First the loan, now home repairs – all written in what seems like a second language homebuyers need to learn to keep from being completely screwed. He wonders, not for the first time, what else he doesn't know about all this.

As he hears the sliding glass door scrape along its track, he looks up to see the two women walking back inside.

He thinks of something, an odd and awful thought that hadn't crossed his mind before. "How can you find out if a crime was committed in a house? Like, by previous owners?"

Rachel fixes him with a confused look, tinged around the edges with embarrassed horror. The agent turns to him with a bewildered expression on her face. "Pardon?"

He shrugs, feeling suddenly somewhat awkward. "I've watched some episodes of Forensic Files, and…just wondered."

He catches Rachel's eye, and she bites her lip to keep from laughing, the corners of her mouth quirking into a reluctant smile.

"There has been no criminal activity on this property, I can assure you. Now, if you'd like to see the garage…"

(Well, he thought it was a good question. The place _did_ seem a little strange.)

* * *

Stepping across the threshold into a carpeted foyer, he looks around at the details of 1256 Something-Or-Other Court, the forty-seventh house on their list. (A fact he knows only because he was informed by his wife. He lost track long ago.) A few paces ahead, he hears a click, followed by the scratch of pen on paper, and he smiles to himself, knowing that Rachel is making note of every detail, pro and con.

The late-afternoon sun filters through the windows in the living room. As he walks under the arched entryway, he finds himself unimpressed. A grey stone fireplace takes up the entire corner of the room, its hearth extending like a low shelf. It takes up way too much space, he thinks. How will they ever find a place for the entertainment center? The windows are tall, but there aren't enough of them to let in the amount of light he liked in a room. It'll always be dark in here – _ugh_.

The agent's heels click against the tiles of the kitchen floor somewhere nearby, and he follows the sound. Turning a corner, he finds both women leaning against the island countertop, talking.

He catches snippets of conversation, but it's difficult – he can't focus anywhere but up, as his eyes are virtually assaulted by the color of the cabinets. Why, he wonders, would _anyone_ paint their kitchen cupboards such a horrible shade of green?

Rachel's hand closes over his when he leans on the counter (still staring at the cabinets), and he finally looks down to find her beaming. "It's the perfect size, Finn! The first home we've found with an island _and_ a pantry! The appliances are staying, there's a _dishwasher_ (she actually does a little jump for joy), and look at the sink!"

It's just a sink, really, with two basins and a tall faucet. He's certainly not excited about it – though he does have to admit that it's twice the size of the one in their apartment. The window above looks out over the small yard, edged by evergreens and a fence (whose posts have seen better days – is she writing these things down?).

The agent pipes up. "If you're worried about the color of the cabinets, it's nothing that can't be fixed with a few coats of paint."

"Right," Rachel responds with a nod of agreement toward the woman. "We know not to get caught up in cosmetic details. Paint and wallpaper can always be changed!"

Right, he thinks. I'd love to work fifty-two hours a week to come home and paint. _Awesome_.

Although he's fully aware that Rachel's smile never fades, he shoves his hands in his pockets and finishes the tour with detached interest. This home-buying thing was getting old, fast.

She gives the mug a quick rinse, then reaches for a towel to dry it.

"A _dishwasher_, Finn. Can you imagine? No more of this – " she lifts the mug in her hands to emphasize her point, " – to deal with. And an island! Space to spread out and prepare real meals!"

He looks up from yet another stack of paperwork; numbers with too many zeros shout at him from amidst the financial jargon on the page. It's not a surprise that he doesn't exactly share her enthusiasm at the moment.

"There's more to a house than the appliances, Rach."

Watching her face fall, he wishes he'd chosen a different tone (or perhaps chosen not to speak at all). But dammit, he's digging himself a thirty-year hole here – it's going to be the perfect home for that kind of commitment if he has anything to say about it.

"I know that," comes her quiet reply.

He rubs his face with one hand before he speaks. (That's becoming a habit.) "I know the kitchen had an island, but did you see how horrible the light was in that living room? And the fireplace took up most of the space!" ("The fireplace was beautiful," she interjects.) "Those cabinets, though – really, who the hell chooses that color for their kitchen? I mean, it's _hideous_!"

The fire flashes in her eyes.

"Are you telling me,_seriously_, that you're against us putting an offer on that house because the living room wasn't bright enough for you _at 5:15 in the evening_ when we visited? And that a _stone_ fireplace, no doubt built to be the focal point of the room, is _too big_ for your liking?" (Her hands flail with each emphasized word, punctuating her emotion.) "_And!_" (Flail.) "The kitchen cabinets, which I'll admit are horrendous, but can be _painted_…_those_ are a deal-breaker for the best house out of forty-seven we've toured?"

(Well, when she puts it that way, his complaints sound pretty damn stupid. But still, no.)

"Rachel, I just didn't like it, okay?"

"Finn, we talked about this in the car. I thought you liked it, too." The anger is mostly drained from her voice, replaced by a note of disappointment.

"No, _you_ talked about it," he snaps. "I listened and thought about how much I disagreed."

His last sentence hangs like fog in the air of the tiny kitchen as he turns back to the paperwork, shuffling through it without really reading the words. He's aware of the soft clink of the mug against its brethren in the cupboard, the cabinet door closing quietly. Then the whispery sound of her slippers against the floor as she walks past the table and into the hallway without a word, the bedroom door closing with a click – all are small wounds, repeated hits that slowly knock the wind from him, leaving him still staring, unblinking, at the paper in front of him.

Finally, he rubs his face again. _Shit._

* * *

She takes his hand, leading him through the arched entryway to the living room. When she turns to smile at him, it's almost as though the light from the tall windows is brighter, illuminating the room in a new way. He looks over his shoulder as they walk, taking in the space again – maybe there really would be room for the TV along that wall. Huh. Interesting. (Why hadn't he seen that before?)

They pass the kitchen, with its shiny countertops and gleaming tile floor. It wouldn't be such an awful job to paint the cabinets, he figures. A couple of weekends spent in the garage with sandpaper and primer and a big can of glossy white paint wouldn't be _so_ bad…

On into the master bedroom, where bright, shining sun streams through the windows along the back wall, and he can easily picture their bed in this space. Nightstands and dresser and Rachel's antique mirror find a home against the walls in his imagination.

The same sunlight brightens the floor just inside the door of the master bathroom; he follows its path, suddenly aware that her hand has slipped from his.

Giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the half-light of the small room, she comes into focus in double, sitting on the edge of the wide, smooth countertop, her back reflected in the mirror lining the wall above the sinks. Her legs are crossed, and her skirt rides high on her thighs, the room's scarce light traveling as far as her hem before disappearing into darkness. He blinks twice, taking it in, wondering if he's imagining things.

She uncrosses her legs (and simultaneously, his jeans feel tighter) as her lips curve into a half-smile, and she speaks for the first time he can remember since they entered the house. "Come here."

Of course. Willingly.

His hips settle easily between her legs, hands sliding up the soft, soft skin of her thighs, half a moment before their lips collide. The sound from the back of her throat, barely discernable on her breath, is his tongue's invitation to part her lips and scrape across her teeth.

He's aware of her hands at his back, quickly untucking his shirt and pressing warm against his skin. Her fingers trail slowly up his spine, and he can't stop the shiver that travels through his shoulders and turns to a moan against her mouth.

Their lips break apart, then find each other again, hungrier this time, and he's _almost_ lost to it, to her and her skin and her thighs pressed tight against his sides. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he's still aware that this _isn't_ their house, even if she wishes it were.

But then her hands trace the waistband of his jeans, bumping over each belt loop in a way that he'd never thought of as quite so erotic before this moment. He forgets whose house this is – ceases caring, really – when he hears the metallic sound of his belt falling open and feels her fingers at the buckle of his jeans.

She's unzipping him, freeing his erection through the fly of his boxers, when his hands travel higher, up to her hips, and he realizes there's nothing but skin beneath his fingertips. She breaks their kiss at the sound of surprise from his throat, looking up at him through her eyelashes, still smiling the same mischievous half-smile.

She strokes him once, firmly, and he's aware of the pressure of her thumb and the path of all four fingers as they brush against him, burned into his skin like a memory after she releases him. Head bowed, he quickly opens his eyes to see her pull the hem of her skirt towards her waist, her fingertips grazing the backs of his hands as she moves.

He remembers once again, the fact hazy but intact in his mind, that this isn't the counter in their own apartment (which saw this same scene long ago, and a few times since), and this is somehow very, very wrong.

But again, he dismisses the thought, forgotten somewhere in the sound of her shoes falling to the floor behind him and the feeling of her palm curved around his erection.

He thinks that he may, in fact, have forgotten how to breathe as he watches her legs part in front of him, her center still hidden in shadow. She strokes him a second time, and that's it; he's inside her, buried in her tight, wet heat, his hands clutching at her hips.

He leans down to kiss her as he begins a well-practiced rhythm, her heels bouncing softly against the back of his legs as he pulls back and thrusts in again. She's anchored at the jut of his hips, fingers gripping both skin and jeans to hold on, ring finger threaded through a belt loop.

The house is silent but for the noise they make, tiny sounds like the clink of his belt buckle against his leg, the soft thud of his knee as it intermittently bumps the door of the cabinet beneath the sink, and the quiet, unmistakable sound of their bodies coming together. Above it all, he hears her breath, feels it hot against his neck when she pulls her lips from his and presses them to the skin beneath his jaw.

They rock together, his pace steady, until he shifts his hand, slipping his fingers across her thigh to find her clit with his thumb. He circles it once and hears her breath hitch, feels her legs tighten around him. He presses harder, circling again and again, as he moves within her, thinking of nothing but hot, sweet friction and the movement of his hand against her skin.

She breaks the silence, speaking for only the second time since they arrived. It's no more than a whisper on a heavily exhaled breath, but he hears it, and he's closer to climax with each word.

"Just - " Another breath, another stroke in, out. "- like that." He quickens the pace of his thumb against her skin, and the muscles in her thighs twitch against his legs. "_There_...that's - "

And her legs pull him toward her, her hands gripping tightly at his waist, as she climaxes; it takes only a few more thrusts, quick and shallow, to fall over the edge and join her. He drops his forehead to her shoulder as it washes over him, electrifying each nerve ending from head to toe and back again, finally settling low in his abdomen like glowing embers from a former fire.

He slips from her after a few moments, but she pulls him close, her arms wrapped tightly around him. He kisses her hair then rests his chin lightly on her head; the mirror behind her reflects both his face and their silhouettes against the backdrop of the dimly lit room.

It's funny, he thinks to himself. He hadn't noticed the walk-in closet in the corner of this room before (maybe the door was closed, he justifies), and he certainly didn't remember that the shower was so _big_. Nor that it had a seat built into the corner. It could be the fact that his wife is still holding him, and he's fully aware of the fact that she didn't wear underwear today, or it could simply be because he's a _guy_, but as he stares at the mirrored reflection of the shower, his mind is working already.

He closes his eyes, imagining the feeling of his palms against slippery tiles, Rachel's hair falling wet across her shoulders…

He jerks awake, breathing hard and fast. He brings one hand to his face and rubs at his eyes; the other slackens around him beneath the covers.

Glancing to his side, he sees the outline of her curves beneath the sheet. Her steady breathing in the darkness is a relief – he's glad she didn't wake up to _that_ - but he feels a pang of hurt that she's still turned away from him even in her sleep.

He changes his boxers and washes his hands, staring at his reflection in their own bathroom mirror. _You've been a total prick_, the Reflected Finn seems to say.

He turns in place to hang the towel back on its bar and remembers the room he saw twice this weekend, once in person and once in the illusion of his dream. It was easily two and a half times the size of this bathroom, with a tub _and_ a shower.

Searching for a valid reason as to why he had such a problem with it last night, he comes up empty. Yes, a house costs a lot of money, but as Rachel pointed out, it's spread over several decades (which still scares him a bit), and it's an investment. He thinks hard, staring again at his mirrored self. She'd smiled in every room of that house. She was probably seeing curtains on the windows and paint colors on the walls, dinner parties and movie nights and stuff that would never cross his mind. He imagines decorating one of the smaller rooms as a nursery. Oh, gosh.

He blinks at his reflection and realizes: he's not only being an asshole but a complete pussy. About _life_.

"Be an adult, dude," he tells the Reflected Finn just before he turns off the light.

Back in bed, he bridges the space between them, sliding across the mattress to curl his body around hers. She makes a noise in her sleep and presses her back close to his chest; her fingers entwine with his where his hand lays flat against her stomach.

He smiles into her hair as his eyes close.

* * *

A shaft of bright morning sunlight slants across the bed when he awakens a few hours later. He shifts, stretches, and watches the light fall to a different angle over the bedspread, a fluid drape across their bodies.

There are a dozen things he wants to tell her when she stirs – explanation and apology and more – but right now, he simply wants to tell her that he's willing to paint some cabinets and that a dishwasher sounds wonderful, that they'll call and schedule another tour of the house this afternoon.

She turns under the comforter, shifting the stripe of light again. Her cheek rests against his arm, her hair falling across her back and tickling his side.

A half-smile lights his face as he looks down at this tiny, beautiful woman he loves. Yes – tiny, beautiful, and (somehow, even in her sleep) skilled in the art of persuasion.


End file.
